


Birthday

by ViolaWay



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Established Relationship, Fluff, Ice Skating, M/M, Sherlock's Birthday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 05:29:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolaWay/pseuds/ViolaWay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Sherlock's birthday, and John's planned something special.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birthday

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [День рождения](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121339) by [Fox_Thom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox_Thom/pseuds/Fox_Thom)



Birthday

“Happy birthday!”

 

Sherlock blinks sleepily, stretching out and yawning before sitting up and giving John a brief smile. (It’s been his first good night’s sleep in ages; John practically dragging him into bed last night, and it’s nice to feel fully rejuvenated again.) John is in the doorway with their best tray (intricately carved wood—a second anniversary present from Mrs Watson, who took an interest almost as invested as Mycroft’s in her son’s relationship as soon as she found out) piled high with food that Sherlock won’t usually eat (on a case or not, he likes showing off his incredible self control—he can stare at a packet of Haribos for forty-eight hours straight and not eat them. He’s thinking of calling up the company to insult their false advertisement, but John says that it’s just a joke and that, well, Sherlock did eat the sweets eventually.). There’s a silver rack full of toast, two mugs of tea, a glass of orange juice—Sherlock’s favourite, John knows—and blueberry muffins (because Sherlock never eats chocolate. Ever.).

 

He tries not to show his delight, but he knows that John can read his eyes like they’re a billboard, and they light up now.

 

“How did you know it was my birthday?” he asks groggily, and if he might be exaggerating his morning voice because he’s aware of John’s adoration of it then he’ll never admit to it.

 

“Mycroft,” John explains.

 

“Stop stalking me,” Sherlock complains.

 

“I didn’t tell anyone else. Thought you might have been one of those people who hates everyone acknowledging that they’re a year older. But we were gonna do something anyway.”

 

“What?”

 

“It’s a surprise.”

 

“You’re a monster,” Sherlock teases. “Can I have the food now?”

 

“What happened to Mr ‘I-never-need-to-eat-because-I’m-some-sort-of-superhero-and-should-have-my-own-TV-series’?” John asks.

 

“I never said that.”

 

“No, you said it should be a movie,” John amends.

 

“Well, people would watch it,” Sherlock huffs, crossing his arms. “Are you going to feed me or not? I believe the tradition with breakfast in bed is that I get to actually eat the food in bed.”

 

“Sure,” John grins, making his way over to bed and handing the tray to Sherlock before sliding back in himself. “I didn’t actually get you a present, but I did buy the box set of Made In Chelsea…you know how you love insulting them.”

 

“I don’t need a present.”

 

“Okay. I love you.”

 

“What was that for?”

 

“Sometimes people actually say it when their partner isn’t bleeding into a gutter or about to go out searching for a serial killer—forgetting their gun, I might add—or almost getting themselves blown up in the kitchen. So, it’s your birthday, and I love you.”

 

Sherlock blushes before replying: “I love you.”

 

(They’ve never felt the need to add that ‘too’ onto the end of the statement, because it’s not a reciprocation; it’s a statement of fact.)

 

***

 

“Ice skating? John, you’re taking me ice skating?”

 

“I’ll admit that this is probably more for my entertainment than yours,” John smirks, leading them through the double doors. “Oh, come on, it’s just physics! Like an experiment. On ice.”

 

Sherlock grumbles, but they rent some ice skates, and John bites his lip to hide his laughter when Sherlock can barely walk on them. It’s made even funnier by the fact that Sherlock is muttering deductions under his breath, presumably to distract himself.

 

“And her boyfriend walks dogs for a living—is that even a real job (apparently so)—she’s on bad terms with her mother but the mother is trying reconcile…” he murmurs to himself.

 

“Come on, Sherlock. Let’s get out on the ice.”

 

“This is entirely unnecessary. I would have preferred to stay at home,” Sherlock says stiffly. John pulls him forcibly onto the ice.

 

***

 

It’s like the videos John has seen of foals learning to walk, except Sherlock is less co-ordinated.

 

“No, you have to glide,” John instructs, sweeping past his boyfriend.

 

“I am!” Sherlock insists, sounding like a child. He takes another tentative few steps, clinging onto the wall like it’s a lifeline. John almost falls over laughing. “I don’t see the point of this,” Sherlock grumbles.

 

“Purely for my amusement,” John assures him. He gets a glare in return.

 

“This isn’t how I thought I’d be spending my birthday, I’ll admit,” Sherlock acknowledges reluctantly.

 

“You just have to get off the wall, then you’ll have more fun,” John promises. “Come on, take my hand, it won’t be so bad.”

 

Barely sixty seconds later, they’re in a heap, with Sherlock on top of him. The wicked smile on the consulting detective’s face suggests that he might have done it on purpose (and used John as a cushion against the ice, the git) but when he leans down to peck John on the lips, it doesn’t matter, and John is smiling again.

“That was fun,” Sherlock agrees, struggling up get up. John pointedly doesn’t offer any assistance, chuckling.

 

“Right, you’re going to do a lap alone. Without my help, without the wall. I know you can do it. Hell, if you can go for three days straight without eating a bite, you can do one lap of this ice rink.”

 

“I’m afraid you overestimate me,” Sherlock responds dryly, but he looks nervous.

 

“Go on then,” John challenges.

 

***

 

Thirty-eight minutes later, Sherlock has made it around the rink. John has counted the amount of time he’s lapped his boyfriend, and it’s standing at forty-two. His legs ache, but it’s worth it for the indignant look on Sherlock’s face, and the subsequent fall onto his backside.

 

They leave, and when they get home John makes Sherlock a home-cooked meal (which is only marginally less disastrous than the time last month when Sherlock tried to re-heat Tesco lasagne—his plan being to somehow convince John that he’d made it from scratch (anyway, the sofa had been on fire when John had gotten back)) and they spend the rest of the evening watching their box set (which John bought at Christmas) of Holby City.

 

“Gay. Cheating on her. Alcoholic. Pregnant.”

 

“Oh, come on. Now you’re just making things up."

 

Three episodes later, Sherlock is proved mostly correct. Five episodes later, he’s entirely so. John hands over the five pounds he stupidly decided to bet on it.

 

It’s midnight, or almost so, and John kisses Sherlock as the day draws to its close.

 

They curl up together on the sofa, drifting into sleep.

 

“I love you,” Sherlock murmurs.

 

“You know, that’s the first time you’ve said it first,” John comments. “Happy birthday, Sherlock.”


End file.
